The Adventure of the Scribbled Letter
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: A former client returns with a mysterious note of warning. Giftfic for Igenlode Wordsmith.


Holmes' summons came in the early evening, when I had just begun to think of dinner. After some apologetic (and, I fear, tiresome) words of parting, I left Mary for a rented carriage. I took care to dress simply, worried that whatever excursion my companion had planned would end in scrambling through mud or dust. Fortunately, the night promised to be clear and only slightly crisp, rendering both heavy coat and umbrella unnecessary.

I arrived at half-past six to find him in the sitting room. The room was stifling, due, no doubt, to the fire in the grate. He seemed not to notice, so absorbed was he by the letter in his hand. As I came in, he looked up only briefly from his examination with a gilded magnifying glass. He gave a curt nod, which I took as an invitation to sit across from him. After surveying the remainder of the letter, he rested the glass on his lap and straightened.

"Pleasure to see you, old fellow," he began.

"And you." When he failed to reply, I continued, "Your telegram, I must confess, was somewhat vague. I assume that it is somehow related to that." Here I indicated the letter.

"Of course it is, but we'll get to that in a moment." He leaned back in his chair. "I am delighted to see that you've taken my advice about the windows." (Some weeks ago he had suggested that I close them at night.) "You smell of chimney smoke," he lazily added.

"I see." After eyeing me for a moment, he laughed.

"You do, though, don't you? It is quite a pleasure to watch your development, Watson, however slow. I do wish that the recipient of this letter was similarly disposed." He passed the document to me, along with the glass.

The paper was yellowed with age, and the writing was difficult to discern through water damage, blotted ink, and lines crossed out so firmly that the pen had poked holes in the page. A large thumbprint in the same blue as the text obscured the upper right-hand corner. In an elliptical (if somewhat crabbed) hand, it read:

"_Dear Miss Hunter,_

_Your recent [here something was crossed out] involvement with my brother, while undoubtedly genuine, has become unseemly. I [Holmes assured me that the word was "apologize"] if this sounds harsh, but his career is vastly more important to him, more so than any [the word "dalliance" could be distinguished] entanglement. If you fail to cease contact with him, I shall be forced to employ more direct measures._

_Sincerely, _

_Abigail Tawley"_

After reading through the piece twice (once with the aid of the glass), I handed it back to Holmes.

"Is this addressed to the same Miss Hunter whom you assisted in –"

"The case which you refer to as 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches' – yes, the same," he rejoined impatiently. "Incidentally, I must thank you. Were you any less compelled to glorify my work, I would have no shorthand for my now unfortunately famed cases. What do you make of it?"

"What should I make of it? It appears as though Miss Hunter has had an unhappy affair with a man of means, possibly a cad, and that the man's concerned family has since intervened on his behalf."

"Anything else?"

"It's written in blue ink on relatively old paper, and the family's name is 'Tawley.'" I watched him for a moment. "I take it that I have missed something of importance?"

"Several things," he replied, taking on the didactic tone that I knew so well. "Firstly, this was written by a man." He held the letter out, pointing at characters as he continued, "Note the slanted letters and narrow spaces, particularly the 'a's. The fingerprint, too, is far too large for any woman's hand, even the thumb. He's left-handed, which one can tell from the slant of the writing and the right-handed thumbprint, as he was holding the top of the paper with his worse hand.

"Furthermore, it's covered with stains and corrections.. No self-respecting, let alone wealthy, writer would have sent this out unless they were either in a rush or unable to procure a fresh sheet. The 'sincerely,' a mere scribble, particularly seems to suggest the former. However, the deleted phrases, at least one of which appears to be obscene" – here he indicated a rather grotesque construction next to "unseemly" – "argue for the latter.

"The clearest part of the letter is the signature. Obviously, the writer did not expect Miss Hunter to recognize Tawley's sister, so it was necessary to distinguish the name.

"The paper is old (further inhibiting the clarity), and the regularly spaced tears on the left side suggest binding. It was most likely ripped from a book.

"What it comes to," he concluded, tapping his knee, "is that whoever wrote this letter was most certainly _not _the wealthy, well-bred sibling claimed."

"Then who was it?" I asked, realizing the answer a moment late.

"I don't know. The evidence is insufficient. That is why tomorrow, we shall thoroughly investigate."

…

"Now," he began. "Let us run through it again on the doctor's behalf. How long has Mr. Tawley been courting you?"

"Six months," Violet Hunter replied. While outwardly composed, she held a white handkerchief, and her face was a flushed pink.

I had accompanied Holmes to her house at the latest hour I could convince him to wait. (It was still abominably early, and I was rather more thankful than I should have been at Miss Hunter's offer of coffee.) The area was surprisingly ramshackle for a young governess, riddled with crumbling tenements and small, hunchbacked houses. Only the odd patch of daisies or the occasional stray raised the huddled structures to anything approaching a proper neighborhood. While I was (and am) by no means so experienced a sleuth as my companion, I deduced that Violet had had some sort of falling out with her family, rendering her unable to ask them for funds. Holmes himself, as was his wont, gave no attention to the dreariness of our surroundings, instead focusing wholly on his witness.

"What does he do?"

"He trades stocks." She shrugged. "Apparently he has some important post at the Clareton brokerage house. He makes a great deal of money, and he's very smart."

"And has he at any point mentioned the existence of a sister named 'Abigail?'"

"No. That's why I was suspicious. Charles has been very forthcoming with me, particularly about his family. He has told me of two other siblings, and it seems odd that he would neglect a third, especially one so invested in his welfare."

"Have you contacted him since the reception of the letter?"

"No. I thought it bore investigation, because of the sister. Well, that and the way it was delivered."

"Where was it?"

"The letterbox, but it was sort of – jammed in there. It seemed out of place, somehow. When I saw what was in it, I suspected that someone had put it there after the other letters had been delivered, while I was out shopping, perhaps. That's when I called you." She paused a moment before continuing, almost hesitantly:

"What if I'm wrong, though? There could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps she has a habit of involving herself in his affairs, and he didn't want to worry me. Perhaps she is mad, or disreputable – which would, after all, explain the paper – and estranged? Perhaps she –"

"Perhaps 'she' is not a 'she' at all?" I interposed. I then proceeded to succinctly relate his discoveries of the preceding evening. Holmes, meanwhile, pressed his fingers to his lips, staring at the floor as if it contained the solution. He remained in like attitude long after I had finished speaking, seeming not to notice the cessation of noise. His position did not change when he next spoke:

"Has anyone been to visit you recently, a man perhaps?"

She colored. "Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, I would never – "

He raised his hands in polite surrender. "My apologies. I would never suggest such a thing. I simply referred to houseguests, friends of the family, inexplicable loiterers – that sort of thing."

After a brief pause, she began to tap her chin thoughtfully. "There was someone by yesterday, actually. Anthony Carmichael. A young man from across the street. He's lived in the neighborhood for years," she hastily appended. "I wouldn't think him capable of forgery. He's really quite kind. He's constantly about."

"I see." Here he turned to me. "I think that we had best take a look at the box, wouldn't you agree?" We left a bit too quickly for good taste, but then, Holmes was never a man of obsequious manners.

…

"A pity we've had a dry week," Holmes commented, inspecting the ground. "We'd have footprints. On the bright side, this clay crumbles easily" – he pinched a handful to dust – "and its bright, distinctive, red color will make identification of the shoes simple."

"Yes, but won't the color appear also on the shoes of anyone in the area?"

"Quite right, Watson. That is part of the reason I asked Miss Hunter about her recent guests. While Mr. Carmichael bears further analysis, he needn't be condemned on the state of his boots alone. Ah, look here!" He indicated a dark spot, about seven by four centimeters, on the flap of the box. "Blood, reasonably fresh."

"That doesn't give us much."

"On the contrary, it gives us a great deal. People do not open letterboxes with their feet, Watson. Furthermore, the offending wound would not have been in contact with the box for more than a moment or two, in which time a finger would not likely have left this much blood. It's probably from the palm, and scars on the palm, particularly recent ones, aren't common. Come, let's see if there's a trail." I followed him past a row of cramped houses, where the irregularly spaced dark patches ended at the road.

"He must have hailed a cab," Holmes mused, pacing about as if still in search of the trail's resumption. "Obviously, we need to find out which one he took, when, and where he disembarked. But first, we had best tell Miss Hunter that we're leaving." He turned on his heel and began to walk back to the house. I had pursued him for a only a few meters when he froze. Seeing nothing at first, I closed the distance between us and followed his gaze. A redheaded man, looking somewhere between twenty and thirty, had left the house across from Miss Hunter's. He carried a watering can, and he began to whistle loudly (if not tunefully) as he proceeded to a miraculously lush row of pots in front of his dilapidated home.

His left hand was covered by a bandage.

…

We avoided Violet Hunter's house altogether, instead slipping into the shadows to escape the notice of Mr. Carmichael (for it undoubtedly was he). He had not noticed our initial presence, so our disappearance caused him no concern. From there, we moved from shade to shade, clinging to the buildings. When we reached Carmichael's house, Holmes silently led me around the side to the back door, which was mercifully unlocked.

We emerged in a parlour which, after a cursory summary by Holmes, was forsaken for an ill-equipped and grimy parlor. A confused jumble of planks that might have once been called a desk crouched in a corner, having been shoved aside to make room for two mismatched chairs. A coffee table contained three notes, two of which were covered by the crabbed hand of our unknowing host. Having picked one up to check the penmanship, Holmes stared at the page. He ran through the other two.

"I see," he murmured, but before I could ask him to clarify, he had pocketed one of the letters.

"Come, Watson," he called quietly, striding to the door. "We're done here." I followed him, but before we could reach the back, Mr. Carmichael was kind enough to open it for us. He gaped in shock, an opportunity that we exploited to make our escape.

Holmes did not even bother with the pretense of disinterest, running directly to Miss Hunter's building. He knocked before losing patience and beginning to toy with the lock. Miss Hunter answered the door moments later, her look of bemusement replaced with one of shock and fear. Holmes raced past her, dragging me along by the arm, and slammed the door.

The woman's eyes were still fixed on the entrance; I looked out through an adjacent window to see Carmichael raise his hand. A bullet thudded against the door, embedding itself in the wood. Holmes turned and, seeing Miss Hunter frozen in the hall, grabbed her and pulled her after him into the kitchen. I belatedly followed.

…

Miss Hunter was visibly shaking, and even I must admit that my characteristic calm was under a great deal of strain, less from the bullet than from the lack of explanation, as we gathered around the kitchen table.

"Holmes, what –"

"W-was that Tony Carmichael? Why –"

"What's in the letter?"

"What letter?"

"He pulled a letter off Carmichael's desk. Holmes?"

He passed the paper to Miss Hunter, and with a gentle request that she read it, he drew his pistol and began to load it.

"'_Dear Mr. Filbin,'_" she began, "_'I am pleased to report that the new source has once more been of use. Clareton intends to buy 500 shares of Aaronson Oil on the twentieth, which should drive up the prices considerably…'_" She broke off. "I-I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Holmes."

"Clareton is Mr. Tawley's place of business, is it not?"

"Yes, it is. I still don't understand how it pertains to me." Her voice was growing stronger, steadied by the effort of the intellectual problem.

"'Source' refers to you." Finished loading, he cocked the gun. As he rose, he continued, "Mr. Carmichael works for a rival firm – or intends to, at any rate – and while he initially befriended you for other reasons, he realized that your involvement with Mr. Tawley was too useful to resist." He raised a conciliatory hand whose effect was somewhat diminished by the presence of the gun. "I have no doubt that you did not intentionally tell him anything. However, you may have accidentally shared details which, while not important to you, were important to the ever-'forthcoming' Charles. Furthermore, after a six-month relationship, it is unlikely that Mr. Tawley did not keep letters or documents in your home."

"Then why did he send the letter?" I demanded.

"Read the rest of that one." He gestured with the gun, belatedly realizing that it was slightly threatening. Another shot rang out, its sound soon dwarfed by the crash of broken glass. Holmes ran out of the room. Before following him, I glanced over Miss Hunter's shoulder at the remainder of the letter:

"… _Please buy all shares at once._

_On a less cheerful note, I am afraid that this arrangement will not last much longer. Mr. Tawley's recent correspondence would suggest that he's growing suspicious. I have done all I could to disconnect us both from the business, but I fear that we shall be found out. In any case, I should like to remind you that we had an agreement. With that in mind, how soon can you offer me –"_

"Watson!"

"Right, coming!" I followed the sound into the parlour.

Holmes was pinned down behind an overstuffed chair, a chair now too riddled with lead to be close to comfortable. The redheaded Carmichael, his back to me, had drawn a second pistol. At the sound of my footsteps, he rounded on me. Holmes seized the opportunity, popping up from behind the chair to fire into Carmichael's leg. The scoundrel briefly forgot me in his pain, and between us, he was soon subdued.

…

"Tempest in a teapot, really," mused Holmes over the receptacle that had inspired the metaphor. "Of course, had Miss Hunter not come immediately to me, it would have become far more serious."

"Yes, she might have broken it off," I agreed, reaching for the sugar. "Worse, Mr. Tawley might have been fired for complicity. There's one thing that remains unclear, though: what exactly was Mr. Carmichael offered for his treachery?"

"A job with a rival firm."

"He was willing to risk his friendship with Miss Hunter, his reputation, his freedom – for a job?"

He _tsked_, smiling sardonically. "Really, Watson, where do you get your view of human nature? It is unconscionably naïve. Men will do anything for their own advancement." He paused for a moment, sipping his tea, before snapping his fingers and jolting upright.

"In fact, I know just the thing to cure you. If Mrs. Watson does not mind another night of your absence, there is a phenomenal opera playing that perfectly illustrates my point. What _was _it called? Some woman's name… Noella? Nola? Nora… Norma! Or course, _Norma. _Care to join me?"

I sighed. "I suppose I can send a telegram."

"Good man." He decisively slammed his cup to the tray. "Now let's go. It starts in twenty minutes, and I have balcony tickets."

I stared, aghast, as he dashed from the room. Then with a reluctant gulp of my remaining tea, I pulled my coat from the rack and followed him.


End file.
